


The Imperfect Tense

by Gigi_Sinclair



Category: Chess - Rice/Ulvaeus/Andersson
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-05-09
Updated: 2012-05-09
Packaged: 2017-11-05 02:00:55
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,335
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/401223
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Gigi_Sinclair/pseuds/Gigi_Sinclair
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The Russian Federation, July 1993.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Imperfect Tense

**Author's Note:**

> First posted June 2009.

July 1993  
The Russian Federation

Anatoly misses Communism. It wasn't perfect, he'll be the first to admit that, but it was something. Now, they have nothing. 

Store shelves are empty all over the city, and people will line up for hours for the chance to pay well over the odds for a stale loaf of bread. Anatoly has done it himself, only to have the beefy female shopkeeper slam the door shut in his face with a decisive "Nyet" when his turn arrived. In a world like this, where mothers can't feed their babies and soldiers sell their guns on the street in the hopes of earning enough for a bowl of soup, no one cares about the game. Anatoly can't blame them. He's just about given up caring himself.

He still plays, of course. It's all he has. That and his teenage children, young enough not to remember their father's brief desertion but old enough to resent their mother's recent remarriage. They spend a lot of time in their father's cramped apartment. Fifteen-year-old Dmitri, the musician, plucks away endlessly at an old acoustic guitar, while the slightly older Irina studies the chessboard, quizzing her father on famous plays and famous mistakes. 

"Remember Alekhine's queenless attack," he tells her, sliding a piece into position. She nods, and Anatoly knows she's filed the move away in her extensive mental library. Irina is good. As good as Florence; as good as Viigand. Soon she'll be better than either of them. One day, she may even be better than her father, if she gets the chance. 

On a hot Wednesday afternoon, Anatoly leaves the kids at the apartment and ventures out. He's heard there's a large shipment of food, assorted vegetables and maybe some meat, coming into a shop at the end of the road. He leaves early, but the queue is still long by the time he joins it, snaking down the street and around the corner.

There was a time, years ago, when Anatoly couldn't go out in public without being accosted. When he was a virtual prisoner inside the extravagant, Party-provided home he shared with Svetlana, when even a trip to the park to feed the ducks with the children became a newsworthy event. Now some of the pinched faces in the queue stare at him with hard suspicion, as if he might try to cut in and deprive them of their scrap of fatty meat or wilted cabbage. Most don't look at him at all. 

Anatoly leans against the brick wall of the long-closed shoe shop behind him. It's empty but for the posters in the windows, advertising a range of men's and ladies' footwear, all brown and all utilitarian. He remembers that Dmitri hasn't had a new pair of shoes in over a year, and Irina has been wearing her mother's castoffs for just as long. He closes his eyes, the weight of responsibility slumping his shoulders.

"Fucking hell, you bastards have let this place go to shit." Anatoly's reverie is interrupted by a harsh, unforgettable voice.

Anatoly hasn't thought of Frederick Trumper in years. Yet there he is, standing in front of Anatoly on a Moscow street corner, his clothes more fashionable than any Anatoly has seen in a long time. 

"What are you doing here?"

"Perestroika, buddy." Freddie grins, showing perfect American teeth. He's changed a little; his hair is greyer and his belly is rounder, but it's still Freddie. "It's suddenly a hell of a lot easier to get journalistic access. Not easy, but easier." Anatoly looks past him. Sure enough, Freddie is with a cameraman wearing a Global Television cap and a woman with slicked back, glossy hair, a perfect specimen of a former Party official. She has a fretful look on her face, but she's the only one who seems concerned. Everyone around Anatoly looks interested. Anatoly can't help but wonder if they recognize Freddie the way they don't seem to recognize him. 

"I don't want to talk to you," Anatoly says.

Freddie sighs, but his smile remains. He faces his companions and says, "Give me an hour or two, would you, guys? Go film some stock footage or something. See if you can get into St. Basil's." They won't be able to, not even now. The glossy-haired woman knows that, Anatoly can tell from the look on her face, but they go. Freddie puts a hand on Anatoly's arm. "Come on."

"I said, I don't want to talk to you." Anatoly wrenches his arm away as calmly as possible. He doubts many of those around him speak English, but human drama requires no language. Like chess. 

"I've got a deal for you."

Anatoly snorts. He can't help himself. "Another one?"

"You'll like this one. Trust me." Freddie stares at him. His face wears its usual expression of disdain, but there's something else in his eyes. It's deeper, sadder. Anatoly glances around; the queue isn't moving. For all he knows, it never will. 

"This had better be good." 

"It is." Freddie replaces his hand and uses it to steer Anatoly away from the crowd.

They walk to a nearby park. Freddie being Freddie, he doesn't get straight to the point. "You used my suggestion when you beat Viigand for the championship."

"Yes." Anatoly agrees. It would be pointless to deny it. "Thank you."

Freddie shrugs. "I'd have beaten him in five straight games, myself." Anatoly doesn't bother arguing. "Are you still in touch with Florence?" Freddie's voice is carefully casual, but Anatoly hears what he's not asking. 

"I haven't spoken to her since Bangkok."

"Me neither. I thought maybe I could sweep in when you walked out, but she didn't want anything to do with me."

"She's a smart girl." They arrive at a bench overlooking the duck pond. Anatoly sits, giving Freddie no choice but to do the same. "You seem to have done all right for yourself."

Freddie shakes his head. "It's a job. It's not chess." 

Anatoly can't argue with that logic. Freddie reaches into his pockets and produces a packet of American cigarettes. He offers them to Anatoly, who would like nothing more than to refuse, but it's been days since he ran out of his own. Freddie flicks an expensive-looking gold cigarette lighter and holds it to the end of Anatoly's cigarette, then lights up one of his own. "I can get you to America."

"What?"

"Well, Global Television can. They will. They want us to do an in-studio interview together."

"Why?"

Freddie shakes his head. Obviously, details aren't important. Nothing is important to Freddie, Anatoly remembers, as long as he gets what he wants. "They'll pay for you to come to New York. They'll pay for Svetlana and the kids, too. Then, once you get there..." Freddie actually winks. It makes Anatoly uneasy, and he counters that by taking a long drag on the cigarette. "I don't think they'll be scheming to bring you back this time." 

It's as stupid and artless as Freddie's last plan, but Anatoly considers it. He has to. Whatever he might have thought fifteen years ago, his first loyalty is not to himself or to the Motherland. It's to Irina and Dmitri. 

There's a long pause. Freddie fidgets constantly, raising and lowering his cigarette, tapping his foot, twirling a bright gold ring around the fourth finger of his right hand. "You ought to be careful," Anatoly finally says, "flashing wealth like that around here. Money is scarce, and some people are desperate." 

"I guess you'd know." Freddie flicks the remnants of the cigarette onto the pavement in front of them. "Look, I'll level with you. I feel like hell about what happened."

Anatoly wants to ask exactly what Freddie feels so bad about, but he has a good idea. "It was a long time ago."

"I want to do something to help you."

"Why should I trust you?" Freddie had never proven himself trustworthy before.

"You shouldn't." It's honest, at least. Anatoly starts a little, and Freddie goes on, "But as far as I can see, your alternative isn't any better." 

Another pause, until Anatoly says, "Svetlana and I are divorced." 

Freddie laughs. "Colour me shocked." 

Anatoly ignores him. "I can't risk my children for a whim. I left them once, I won't do it again." That stirs something in Freddie's eyes. He blinks suddenly and looks away, fixing his gaze on the ducks in the pond.

"Good. That's good. Your kids are important." His eyes return to Anatoly's. "They'd have opportunities in the States. Life, liberty, the pursuit of happiness, all that shit." It's been a while since Anatoly has heard a party line of any political stripe. "Hell, if your kids are anything like you, they could graduate magna cum laude from any school in the Ivy League and be millionaires by the time they're thirty." Anatoly's brilliance at the chessboard never translated to brilliance in any other area of life, but he's not about to tell Freddie that. Certainly not when the man has just paid him what could conceivably be a compliment.

Freddie's gaze shifts, and Anatoly follows it to the row of weathered chessboards, set beneath a copse of leafy green trees. Anatoly comes down here sometimes, to play the old men and the little kids, to keep his hand in. Occasionally, he even pretends they're worthy opponents, and instead of a run-down Moscow park, he's playing in Hastings, or the Philippines. Or Merano. 

Anatoly can see the gears shifting in Freddie's head. He knows what Freddie's going to say before he says it, but he doesn't interrupt. "Tell you what. I'll play you for it. One game, winner takes all. If I win, you come to New York for the interview. If you like it, maybe you could stay for a while. See what the kids think of the place."

"If I win?" It's more likely, given their past history. 

"I'll leave you alone. Tell Walter I couldn't track you down. You'll never see or hear from me again." 

"I can't think of any better prize." But Anatoly smiles as he says it. Freddie smiles back, and Anatoly feels a tremor of excitement at the thought of an actual game at last. 

***

Anatoly is so used to winning easily, even against Irina, that it takes ten moves before he realizes Freddie is manoeuvring him into a corner. Indignant, he strikes back. A small crowd gathers, watching as Freddie bends down low over his pieces, his brow furrowed. 

Anatoly can't remember him being this focused before. There's a lot of things he doesn't remember about Freddie. The way he touches his pieces for as long as possible after making a move, his fingers sliding over the wood. The way he licks his lips when he's thinking, the way he wipes a bead of sweat away from his forehead.

It is hot, and Anatoly feels rivulets of perspiration rolling down his own back. His heart pounds, thumping with the thrill of competition, and when Freddie makes an unexpected move, he feels his stomach lurch.

It's been a long time since Anatoly has been so invested in a game. When he finally wins, rather than feel elated or validated, Anatoly is disappointed it's over.

"Looks like you've still got it, old man." Freddie grins, showing more sportsmanship than he ever did when they were younger. 

"I guess so." Anatoly looks at him. A bead of sweat rolls unheeded down Freddie's still-smooth forehead and past one spiky-lashed eye. Anatoly's stomach lurches again, but this time a new, different kind excitement begins to bubble up inside him. "Want to play again?" 

"We said winner takes all." 

"I know. But I'm willing to play best of three."

"Okay." Freddie sets up the pieces again. The crowd around them, which has been steadily growing, murmurs approvingly and settles in for the long haul. 

Anatoly has never been distracted by an opponent before. When he played professionally, he could have competed against a computer or a robot or a trained monkey for all the difference it made. He studied strategy, not people, and any claims the Americans or the Spanish or anyone else made about his tendency for psychological warfare were pure paranoia. He doesn't care about the person on the other side of the table. He never has. 

He can't explain why midway through the second game, while Freddie is still sweating and still caressing his pieces with what can only be described as distracted eroticism, Anatoly hears himself say, "I couldn't find Florence's father."

Freddie's eyes leave the board. "That's too bad."

"I don't know why I thought I could." Once he came back to Moscow, Molotov and the others had been just as they were in the past. Cracking the whip like deranged ringmasters, demanding Anatoly focus on chess to the exclusion of all else. They couldn't stop him from retiring, although they tried. They could siphon away most of his World Championship earnings, forbid anyone to employ him as a chess trainer, and generally ruin his life. They did so, not even bothering to mask their glee. "Coming back was the worst decision I ever made."

"You were here for your children. That's no small thing, believe me." It's Freddie's turn, but he looks away from the board. Anatoly notices the same deep, unreadable expression in his eyes. For a moment he wishes he were the master of psychology his opponents made him out to be. "It's not like I'm without regrets." 

"Florence." It's not a question, but Freddie shrugs.

"Not only Florence." Freddie's gaze drops, then returns to Anatoly's face. As usual, Anatoly is oblivious to the crowd of spectators around them. He's in a world of his own, a world comprised uniquely of himself and the chessboard, just like in the old days. But unlike the old days, this time Freddie is part of that world, too, encased in the impenetrable bubble alongside him.

The game progresses, and the temperature rises. Freddie wins the second match. As they begin the third, Anatoly feels discombobulated, his mind fuzzy and his reflexes sluggish. Freddie is affected as well; he makes two stupid mistakes early on, errors so elementary that Anatoly almost feels guilty for taking advantage of them. 

It's been too long, Anatoly thinks, as he tries desperately to focus on the array of white and black in front of him. Too long since Florence, too long since Svetlana. Sex has never been a priority of Anatoly's, but now he's besieged by an increasingly insistent, increasingly unsettling lust. It must be the heat of the day, the pressure of the game, but he could swear Freddie is in a similar state. There's no other way to explain the constant lip-licking, the drumming of the fingers and the darting of the eyes, the rash decisions and the ridiculous false steps. 

They are nearly at the end of the game when Anatoly realizes Freddie is trying to lose. He can't believe it at first, but there's no other explanation. He doesn't know why, but if that's the game, Anatoly isn't about to give in lightly. He radically alters his strategy, making moves his daughter would have rejected in primary school. Freddie smirks, but he continues on his losing course, forced to make ever more ludicrous moves in order not to win accidentally. The crowd around them begins to dissipate as their game devolves further. 

Playing to lose is harder than playing to win. Anatoly has not spent his life training for that, and in the end, training wins out. Anatoly slips up and forces himself into a position to put Freddie in check. Freddie laughs and pushes his chair back. "Well played, comrade."

Anatoly feels like he's missing something, like Freddie is making an incomprehensible joke at his expense. Something presses against his foot, and he glances down to see Freddie's well-polished shoe resting against his old, scuffed one. "Your place or mine?" Freddie lowers his voice, even though there is no longer anyone within earshot. 

Anatoly swallows hard around a mysterious lump that seems to have formed in his throat. "I...I, ah, I have my children." He has no idea what's going to happen between them, but he's reasonably certain it's not something he wants Irina and Dmitri to witness. 

"My place it is, then." Freddie sets off, leaving Anatoly to trail after him.

***

Freddie's hotel is a featureless grey cinder block in a so-called "rejuvenated" district. The walls are liberally sprayed with graffiti, and the dimly lit elevator groans as it shudders up to the fourth floor. The hallways are equally dark, and Anatoly feels the beginnings of panic. 

"I should go," he tries, but his words sound unconvincing even to his own ears. 

"Like hell." Freddie stops in front of a doorway. He fumbles in his pocket for a key, and turns it in the lock. The room is spartan. Anatoly has no time to critique the décor. As soon as the door slams shut behind them, Freddie pulls Anatoly close and presses their mouths together.

They make it all the way to the narrow bed before the harsh sound of creaking springs jolts Anatoly out of his temporary insanity. He pulls away, but Freddie keeps a firm grip on him, fingers digging painfully into Anatoly's shoulders. "What are we doing?"

"Something we should have done a long time ago." 

"It's not..." Anatoly doesn't know how to finish the sentence. Freddie looks up at him, his face flushed. Anatoly's heart is hammering so loudly, he can barely hear himself think.

"Nobody's on nobody's side, Anatoly." Freddie looks at him, eyes bright in the darkened room. "But we've known each other a long fucking time." 

It's not what Anatoly would call a solid argument. They haven't spoken in over a decade, and even before that they were never what Anatoly would call friendly toward each other. But Freddie moves forward again, pulling Anatoly down on top of him, and all remaining reason is lost in the feel of his lean body and sweat-slippery fingers. 

It's only later that Anatoly realizes Freddie called him by his first name.

***

"I'll come to America." Anatoly's voice sounds loud in the quiet hotel bedroom. "With the children. There's nothing for them here." Svetlana will be reasonable. She loves them, too, and she's no fool. Irina and Dmitri themselves may not be pleased to be taken away from their friends and their home, but in the long run, it's the only way. They'll see that.

"Good." Freddie doesn't sound surprised. He takes a drag on his cigarette, then taps it on the side of the yellow foil ashtray. The room smells of smoke and sweat. Anatoly doesn't know what time it is, but darkness has descended outside the thin white curtains. He will have to get home soon, before the children begin to worry. 

"I don't have anything for their supper." Anatoly says it aloud. There's no point in trying the shop now. Anything they had would have been sold hours earlier.

"So bring them here. There's a decent restaurant and Global gives me a ridiculous expense account." 

"We don't need charity." 

Freddie laughs harshly and stands up. "Do I look like the kind of guy who offers it?" It's a fair point. Everything is deals with Freddie. Still, Anatoly doesn't feel like he's conceded anything this time.

He watches with interest as Freddie crosses the room, naked, and unfastens a suitcase resting on the only chair. He produces a small chessboard, folded and portable, and a plastic bag of pieces. "You have time for another game, right? A real one? I don't want you to think I'm losing it in my old age."

Anatoly nods and Freddie sets the board up on the bed. Anatoly drapes the sheet across his lap and sizes up the pieces. He always has time for another game, and so does Freddie. That's one thing that will never change for either of them.


End file.
